


reason, wash your hands of me

by basketofnovas (slashmarks)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Cold War, Consent Issues, Dark Comedy, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, F/M, Historical Hetalia, Mutual Non-Con, Politics, Sex for Favors, Something Made Them Do It, this is comedy not erotica okay?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 19:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17127698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmarks/pseuds/basketofnovas
Summary: Iran looked down at his hand and said very pointedly, "I am drunk and you are a homosexual." She had to stop in the middle of the last word to make sure she was saying it right, which removed some of the impact.*In which Pahlavi Iran and Cold War America are subject to some serious misunderstandings on the part of others about the nature of nationhood and the spread of communism across borders; or, the establishment of the Baghdad Pact.





	reason, wash your hands of me

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: This is a fic in which America and Iran have sex because of conflicting orders, alcohol and inertia. There isn't any struggling or outright withdrawal of consent, but neither of them wants to be there. Please be advised.
> 
> Title from Rumi, as translated and quoted in [this paper](https://brill.com/view/book/edcoll/9789004217645/B9789004217645_006.xml).
> 
> This fic takes place in the same continuity as my other Iran fic, a few years after [weary as water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11947131). Please note that my Iran character is original, developed before the appearance of Persia in canon.

"This is a stupid idea," Iran said, walking into the hotel room. Her heels sank into the carpet without a sound and she nearly turned an ankle. When America hit the lights she flinched. Damn it, she was drunker than she had thought, or possibly starting to turn the corner from inebriated to hungover.

She couldn't have that; being sober in America's presence in general was undesirable, let alone in pain before he began to speak. "You have alcohol," she said, a command and not a question; then she followed his vague gesture to the bottle of - cognac, apparently - on the table.

Not the choice of poison she would have guessed; America had always struck her as more of a cheap liquor type, or beer; and he was a showy drinker of over-engineered cocktails if he was in polite company. She wondered if someone had told him she drank brandy and resolved to punch France in the face at the next opportunity, just in case. Whether or not it had been him, he had undoubtedly done something to deserve it.

"Look," America said, resigned. "Can you actually explain the objection if you're gonna pitch a fit about it in front of Eisenhower? As a personal favor."

When he spoke she was concentrating hard on pouring the cognac without spilling it. It took her a moment to remember what they were talking about. "This treaty thing," she said.

"The Middle East Treaty Organization," he prompted, tiredly.

No one that young got to use that tone with her. "Ah, yes, like NATO," she said, "But for us. Which is why you're here?"

"As a sponsor." America was still standing by the door, like he was about to slam it on her; like he was afraid she'd bite if he came closer. She snapped her fingers and pointed at the other chair, and he rolled his eyes, but he came.

"Which is also why Britain is involved?" They hadn't sent him to talk to her, so someone involved in this mess might possibly maintain the use of their brain.

"You were telling me how stupid I am," America said, pulling the chair out.

"Not you, the treaty. You are not stupid, which is most of the problem. Intelligence is not a virtue in someone your age. You're supposed to be thoughtless and unthreatening until five hundred or so." Dear god, she _was_ still drunk. She hadn't meant to say any of that. Appalled, she downed most of the tumbler at once, which was not the ideal way to drink cognac.

But it was the ideal way to treat an expensive gift from someone trying to extort you so she refused to regret it. She lifted the bottle to refill her glass. The liquid slopped against the sides, rising in waves. She stared at it, transfixed, thinking about the sea, until America took the cognac away from her and refilled her tumbler himself.

"The treaty," she said, embarrassed and enunciating too carefully. "There is something about modern warfare, America, which I would expect you in particular to remember but apparently I am wrong. It is important. _Missiles and long distance communication do not respect borders_."

"Ah ha?" America said.

"The Soviets are already in bed with Egypt," she said impatiently.

Any pleasure she had once gotten out of this, lecturing America, had drained years ago, and spending his money had grown old. She was tired.

"You have this plan, to make a buffer between the Soviet Union and the Middle East, yes? Well, I border him, so very well, you could intercept soldiers that way over land." Her sisters and cousins bordered Russia, not her directly, but they had already been swallowed, of course. "But you can't intercept a missile, or an alliance, or an idea, with surveillance posts on a border."

She paused here to drink, and to check that the words in her head were coming out in the right order. Bad enough that she sounded British - she always sounded British in English unless she concentrated very hard on avoiding it, which was to say unless she was sober. Which was rare these days.

"The world has changed, America," she said. "You changed it. Plan accordingly," she said triumphantly, and then she stopped talking while she was ahead.

"Yeah, well." America sighed, and looked at her, and she knew at once that she wasn't giving him new information; that he was just going along with his military officials, the way they all were. The way they would all go along, following the money together straight to hell. "I'll pass it along to the right people if you behave at the actual meeting, okay?"

"What am I, your dog?" she said, and "Don't answer that question," and then he put his hand on her thigh.

 _"Really_ now?" she said. She regretted offering him the chair, but it wasn't a terribly useful emotion so she suppressed it quickly.

"Really." He smiled at her apologetically. The yellow light reflected, very blue, from his eyes. He was so young. It was the least arousing thing she had seen in her life.

Iran looked down at his hand and said very pointedly, "I am drunk and you are a homosexual." She had to stop in the middle of the last word to make sure she was saying it right, which removed some of the impact.

He didn't flinch; he also didn't deny it.

"Nonetheless." America slid a thumb under the elastic band at the top of her stocking. She stared at his hand blankly, not connecting the movement of the stocking coming down her leg to her own body, until he was lifting her foot to unhook the strap on her ankle.

"You're meant to take those off first," she remarked, as though correcting a student.

Then she remembered a conversation she had had earlier and took another drink. She had thought this had come out of nowhere, but reconsidering, she had been very specifically told to give America whatever he wanted earlier.

Iran had really thought they were talking about the damn treaty and her own tendency to become argumentative over stupid military decisions. She wasn't even sure this counted, because she was _very_ sure that America had no interest in women in general or her in particular; and therefore this wasn't what he wanted, was it?

America took her other shoe off and she let him, which was interesting, because she was telling herself to get up and walk out of the room and it didn't seem to be working.

"I am incredibly drunk right now," she said aloud, and wasn't sure what language it had come out in.

"Mind if I join you?" He stopped touching her, which was a temporary improvement, and refilled his own glass. She couldn't remember if that was his second or third, or if she had just drank her second or third, and given how much they had both had with dinner it was sort of a moot point, wasn't it?

God. She was sitting in America's hotel room with one stocking off and they were apparently going to have sex, which neither of them wanted, because her government had told her to give him what he wanted and his had told him--

"Why the hell did Eisenhower think this would make me cooperative?" she asked. "Are you supposed to blackmail me? Are there going to be pictures? Because I don't think it's possible to take worse pictures than the ones that already exist of me with Turkey and India--"

"What, both at once?" America appeared mildly surprised.

"No, you cretin." She considered that. "Not that I would object to the idea, but they don't get along." She took another, longer drink because consciousness did not seem worth sticking around for.

"Wait," America said, "You let Turkey take pictures _?_ "

"--Don't tell me you didn't already realize I was a slut."

"No, it's just, Turkey _._ I always thought you were smarter than that."

"You're sleeping with him too, don't deny it." She had heard about that little love affair from three or four directions at once. She wondered how the Ottoman was taking being the used one for a change. Possibly it would improve him.

"I didn't say _I_ was smarter than that," America remarked, which was a backhanded compliment at best, and finished his glass. He didn't refill it; only looked at her.

"I don't suppose there's any way I can talk you out of this," Iran said. She wished he had left the lights off. She didn't want to look at him; but there didn't seem to be anywhere else natural to look. Dear god, his face was smooth; he might be old enough to shave, but certainly not enough to have a full beard if he didn't.

"For what it's worth, I don't want to be here, either," America said.

If he had it might have improved matters. At least there was some pleasure in being desired.

"I worked that out by myself, thank you," she said, gave up on the preliminaries and the hope she would drink herself unconscious before they got any further, and kissed him.

He tasted like vaseline. She supposed his skin wasn't taking the desert well. Baghdad hadn't been hers in a long time, but she was familiar with the city, more or less comfortable there.

She didn't like the taste. She didn't like him. She closed her eyes and tried to pretend it was someone else, tried to enjoy at least the act - and he was a competent kisser anyway, which made sense given the number of nations he was supposed to be sleeping with--

That gave her a thought. "Condom," she said, breaking the kiss. "You have one, yes? I don't want syphilis."

"I don't have syphilis," America said.

"That's what they all say. Do you have one?"

He looked hopeful for a moment, reaching for his wallet; then his face fell. "Yeah, I do."

"Damn you." She put her still-bestockinged foot in his lap. He blinked at her. "Take it off," she said. "I'm drunk and my nails are longer than yours, I'll put a run in it. If you are going to molest me you can do me the courtesy of taking my clothes off instead of making me do it."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, but at least he also took the stocking off. His thumb on the arch of her foot tickled, making her toes twitch. She sighed. With someone else, in other circumstances, this might be pleasant.

She was expecting him to go to the bed, or tell her to go to the bed, or possibly make some terrifying move to carry her there, which she would have to put a stop to because she knew from experience she was too tall for it to be practical. When he slid a hand up her skirt she supposed he would make some pretense at foreplay at the table instead; she was _not_ expecting him to take her underwear off at the table and go to his knees in front of her.

"Oh, my god, are you joking," she said, appalled; but she said it in Farsi. She knew perfectly well he understood but he often pretended otherwise; and just now he ignored her in favor of putting his mouth where it was decidedly not welcome.

At least Iran was drunk enough that most of the, ah, usual sensation was lost. She put her head back and thought about telling him to stop, about shoving his head away, putting her underwear and her shoes back on - or, well, carrying them because she'd already been having trouble walking _before_ the two or three tumblers of cognac - and storming out, possibly with some cursing. She was nearly three thousand years old and she had learned some very good curses in that time.

She was just getting really into the fantasy, considering whether she should add a slap into it before or after she put her clothes back on, when America made a surprised noise directly into her clit and she realized she had moved.

"That wasn't about you," she told him. "I was choreographing a dramatic confrontation in my head. Don't take it as encouragement."

He withdrew slightly in order to say, "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Can we just skip to the part where you're fucking me now and get it over with?" she said.

"Ouch."

"Not to, ah, impugn your skills." Actually if she hadn't been so drunk she wasn't particularly aware of the touch and also had wanted to be having sex with him he would have been decent, if not stunning. He must sleep with a lot of women for work. "But I have places to be tonight." Like her own, private bed.

They stumbled to the bed - the sheets were very nice, she thought vaguely, it was a pity she wasn't going to appreciate them - and out of their clothing; or rather, he helped her stumble out of hers, took his suit jacket off and unfastened his slacks.

There was a moment where she saw that he hadn't even removed his tie and she nearly left. She hadn't been a nation so young as to be dearly vulnerable to government compulsion in many, many years now; and this was so clearly not what he wanted, so the squeamishness of the phrasing could help.

But it was always harder to summon the will to act than to fail to act, and she wasn't sure she could walk to the door right now, let alone storm out. Once she let the indignation drop and thought about the long walk to the front door and the explanation to her ambassador about being back early the black wave of despair rolled back over her, and it was easier to obey; to just freeze and let it happen, let it be over sooner.

She turned her head to the side and stared out the window with unfocused eyes during the actual act. The best that could be said of it was that it was brief.

"I am amazed you can get it up right now," she said at one point.

"Ahehe, yeah," America said. "So am I."

He didn't orgasm, and certainly she wasn't about to, but he did eventually roll off of her and she heard his zipper close. She turned her face to the ceiling. "I suppose this is what being married is like," she remarked.

"I wouldn't know," America said.

"Get the cognac."

"Yes, ma'am." She heard him pad over to the table and the sound of liquid pouring. He put the glass in her hand - the boy had manners, anyway - and at some point after that she passed out.

 

She woke up in the morning with the sheets over her, breakfast covered on the table and no America in sight, which was probably for the best for both their sanity. She got up and drank the tea and ate the food, and reflected that it was the fact that America did this kind of thing while remembering her drink preferences that made him so terribly disconcerting.

Then she went to the meeting and she didn't make a scene, although she did tell her ambassador that Eisenhower was an idiot and his nation was a randy dog too loudly in Farsi at an opportune moment. America did her the dignity of twitching _then,_ the patronizing jackass.

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, characters' opinions don't necessarily reflect mine. 
> 
> You can read more about the Baghdad Pact [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baghdad_Pact) and [here](https://2001-2009.state.gov/r/pa/ho/time/lw/98683.htm). In brief, it was a treaty meant for mutual defense in the Middle East to contain the spread of communism and it had some issues.
> 
> You can also read some about the history of American-Iranian relations [here](http://origins.osu.edu/article/frenemies-iran-and-america-1900). This fic is set in the fifties, in the aftermath of intervention.


End file.
